


Laying down salt lines

by tragicamente



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicamente/pseuds/tragicamente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt request: First-time Wincest fic: drinking and getting carried away/crossing lines, anywhere from outright sexing to merely rubbing against each other in entertaining ways, especially if the morning-after is fun and awkward</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying down salt lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts).



> This was originally written as a prompt request fill on LJ at SPN Holidays for dreamlittleyo. Written after S1.

Sam can still feel the flames licking at his skin, can still remember the way Jess’s blood felt warm on his forehead, the way her mouth was stretched wide, broken at the edges. It is pretty much all he remembers for the first few weeks, and the images still haunt him when he sleeps.

“Sam?” Dean says, waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you going to take your girly sugary excuse of a drink? Or am I going to stand here all day?”

The coffee cup is crinkled, coffee stains already on the plastic lid where it’s sloshed out while being carried. Sam curls his fingers round it, feels the warmth seep into his skin.

“Thanks.”

Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye. At first it annoys him, keeps flinching every time he feels Dean’s gaze on him, but now it’s become second nature, like applying cream before the razor. 

He slides into the car, riding shotgun, sometimes it still feels weird not to be in the back of the car, watching his father’s shoulder’s bunch as they drive for miles and miles. The only constant is that Dean is still beside him.

-

They stop in Michigan following a werewolf with a particular taste for young children and after having plugged it with silver bullets they immediately run into another case - a water demon of some kind. This is because apparently a person in Michigan is never more than 85 miles from open Great Lakes water and is never more than six miles from a natural water source. This makes it just dandy for the nasty thing to pop up whenever it’s getting peckish, leaving the heart and lungs of the victim to float to the surface while devouring the rest.

“This is ridiculous.” Dean says as the thing disintegrates into droplets of water once again, this being the third time now. Sam manages to catch up with him a bit later, unused to the hunt like Dean is, huffing and panting, sweat trickling down his face.

“What? You lost it again?”

“You try shooting this thing when there’s water _fucking everywhere_ and it’s about a million degrees.”

He drags a hand over his face, rubbing around his eyes. The lines there are genuine, years of travel and duty and Sam watches the way they crinkle as Dean sighs. 

“We need another plan.”

“There isn’t a library around here, Dean. And there are no motels nearby. At all.” Sam is hot and tired, he can see Dean’s skin turning slightly pink above his t-shirt.

“I know a place we can go.” Dean says after a moment.

-

The house they pull up to is sparkling white, almost eerily so, with painted blue window frames. The flowerbeds are well-kept, tidy and and trimmed, but the flowers are withering with the heat, shrivelled at the corners and drooping to the ground.

“What is this?” Sam asks, over his shoulder. Dean always just a step behind.

“Some people I helped out last time I was here.” He knocks on the door, coughs and shifts from one foot to the other. A young girl answers the door and looks up at him in awe.

“Who is it?” she says, softly. Dean chuckles and ruffles her hair.

“You’re supposed to ask that _before_ you open the door, can I speak to your mum?” 

Sam sees there is an umbrella stand in the shape of tree roots, shoes scattered at its foot. He hears footsteps and the mother comes up behind the little girl, resting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

“Dean!” she says, effusive and warm, “come in! Carolyn, can you get some iced water from the fridge, please?”

Carolyn disappears quickly, still not taking her eyes off Dean though as she goes. Sam watches Dean embrace the woman, ask her if she’s been good, if there have been anymore _problems_. Then is when it occurs to him. Then is when he realises that there are so many hunts Sam has never experienced, so many places and people that know Dean in a way Sam doesn’t. It’s selfish, he knows, but he always assumed Dean would never change, that Sam was allowed to go to Stanford, allowed to grow and become someone else. But Dean wasn’t supposed to do that. Sam was still supposed to know everything about him, and the realisation that Dean’s lived this whole life without him – well, it kind of hurts. He thinks this is what Dean must have felt like when Sam went away.

He follows his brother quickly into the living room, watching the way Dean moves in this person’s house, it brings him a strange relief to see that he isn’t comfortable here and that he looks back to check if Sam is there.

Sam seats himself right next to Dean as he asks if it would be too much trouble to crash in the guest room for the night.

-

The guest room has flowery wallpaper, little folded towels on the pillows and a porcelain basin to pour water with. It feels like a bed and breakfast, a cottage on the side just waiting for someone to impress with its attention to detail. There is only a double bed though and Dean seems to let it go without an argument, Sam thinks it might have to do with the mother giving him pointed looks. When he dives onto the bed it smells of musk and the scent makes him cough a little.

The sight of Dean laying out his guns on the table is an oddly comforting one, even if out of place with the violets and pinks of the surrounding walls.

“Get researching.” Dean says, picking apart and putting together the armoury. “I want to be out of here by tomorrow night.”

Sam thinks of school deadlines, the staying late in the library with other students listening to their music on walkmans and compares it to this. The need for movement, the need to get there always faster because otherwise someone might die. He’s surprised how easily it all comes back to him, the hunting, the research. Sometimes he tries to fool himself that it’s just like doing research for a paper, his friends at Stanford always commented on his ability to find the right kind of information he needed. Not that the hunting business ever left him completely, some things are ingrained too deeply. He had a hard time shaking the habit of laying down salt lines and explaining to his roommates why he kept a knife in his bedside drawer.

What’s even more surprising is how easily Dean slots back into his life. Four years of no phone calls, four years of receiving postcards sporadically, four years of not knowing where his brother was or if he was okay. They seem to melt away with the rumble of the Impala, the scent of Dean’s leather jacket, the small bottles of shampoo that he steals for on the road.

It makes his whole life at Stanford seem so surreal.

-

He wakes up to Dean shaking his shoulders, guiding him from the chair he’s slumped in to the bed. The memory of what he found jumps at him, printed text and folklore swimming to the surface.

“We need to find what it’s guarding,” Sam mumbles, “if we destroy that. It’s gone.”

He expects Dean to shake him awake, to tell him to get his ass into gear they’ve got work to do. Instead he presses a cool hand to his forehead and lowers him into the mattress. 

“Yeah, we’ll get to that tomorrow morning.”

Sam feels the bed give way beneath him, it’s been a long time since he slept in a comfortable bed, it just reminds him of being in Jess’ apartment, surrounded by girl-type products and smelling her scent on all the pillows. He grabs Dean’s hand and pulls him down with him, not really knowing why. Dean tumbles forward into the bed with him.

“Stay here, share the bed.” Sam says, he’s not sure why he says it, maybe he just wants Dean to try to feel what he’s feeling, try to understand what this comfort means to him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Dean to go sleep with the mother, or leave him with the darkness of the room and the orange glow of the streetlight making lines across the ceiling.

Dean doesn’t seem to argue, he nudges Sam over, edging himself into the space available slowly. He’s tense at first but Sam is too riddled with sleep to notice, all he feels is the warmth of his brother’s body, his arms around his shoulders and the soft whisper in his ear.

“Good work, Sammy.”

-

When they were little, sharing a bed was a common thing. Born from pure necessity and nightmares and needing to speak in whispers to the early hours of the morning. It was easier then because Sam was small and fit into all kinds of places and Dean knew how to curl up just right, and it was all coloured with childish innocence.

Sharing a bed now has connotations, things born from experience with girls who curve inwards and have smaller limbs and long hair that tickles your shoulders. So Sam realises he should find it weird, this whole sharing a bed thing with your brother, but it comes naturally. And actually, that sort of worries him.

What worries him even more is that he wakes up with his nose pressed into Dean’s hair and his arm slung around Dean’s chest, legs entangled like they were mean’t to fit that way. His heart speeds up and he disentangles himself quickly, fearful of waking Dean.

The bathroom is cold compared to the warmth of the bed and Sam feels his skin prickle with goosebumps, he stares at himself in the mirror. Doesn’t immediately see the shadows under his eyes or the nightmares hiding under his skin, he sees Dean first and foremost, and even a cold shower doesn’t rinse that image away.

His fingers try to grip the tiles as he comes, hard and fast with the taste of Dean’s sweat on his lips.

-

The thing the water demon is guarding is some kind of bronze compass belonging to a sailor who struck a deal many years ago.

“I don’t care about the backstory, I just want to know where this thing is so we can destroy it.” Dean says as they have breakfast at a nearby café, weak coffee and soggy toast but an excellent sunny side up. Sam’s feeling acutely aware of his limbs, it’s as if he’s suddenly realised how very tall he is and he doesn’t know where to put them. Too much to the left and he’s touching Dean’s thigh, too far that way and he’s rubbing against Dean’s arm.

He never realised how stupidly physical they were until, well, he realises how physical they are. Dean and him touch _all the time_ , just a pat on the back here or a friendly shove there, but while before they were barely noticed, now every one is catalogued and sends shivers down Sam’s spine.

It’s unsettling, and _wrong_ and Sam averts his eyes, intensely interested in the paper that’s leaving ink stains all over his fingers.

“Should be on the boat of the old sailor, he was a live-at-sea kind of guy, all of his posessions should still be there.”

-

Sam doesn’t remember when it all started going horribly wrong. Maybe it was as soon as they stepped on the boat, maybe it was when Dean and him split up at that first fork but all of sudden he’s listening to Dean screaming his name and wondering where the hell he is. He’s scrabbling at the wooden panelling before him, mind blank with panic.

“Dean! Damnit, Dean!”

When he manages to wrench the door open Dean is writhing on the floor, drenched from head to toe gasping for air. Sam fires the shotgun at the shimmery lines above Dean’s form making it dissipate temporarily and in that moment of respite Dean throws the compass at Sam who catches it out of the air.

“Go!” Dean shouts, and Sam responds to the order even if his instincts are screaming to just run to his brother’s side. Once he rounds the corner he’s sprinting to the duffle bag containing the blowtorch and immediately sets the compass ablaze. He watches the metal twist and melt beneath the flames.

Dean stumbles out of the boat onto the quay, face still slightly purple, Sam dips under his arm to support his wieght.

“You okay, Dean?” he asks, unable to hide the fear that makes his voice quiver.

“Wish I could’ve used the blowtorch.” Dean says, coughing softly and Sam’s chest blooms with something warm and indescribable.

That night he doesn’t dream of Jess. Actually, doesn’t dream at all.

-

They started out the day with a plan. They were going to take the I-69 out of here, find somewhere warm to lie low for a few days, but as is according to their luck, the black clouds start to roll in around nine am. The rain starts shortly after that. The thunder even faster. The radio in the Impala crackles words of warning about flooding and dangerous downpour.

“I’m so sick of all this water,” Dean says as he pulls over, hearing the squelching beneath the wheels and feeling as the car sinks a fraction of an inch. Sam can see the worry etched into Dean’s face, hears the steady drum of rain on the rooftop. It makes him feel uneasy.

“I think we should wait it out. There might be a motel nearby.”

What they find turns out to be better: an abandoned house, all four walls still intact and only minor problems with the roof. But it’s taken a few hours to find it and the rain is falling even harder now and they’re practically soaked as they run from the car to the house. Still dripping they run the basics taught to them so many years ago, laying salt lines, warming up one room that they decide to camp out in. The duffle bags are dumped in a corner, slowly letting off a stream of vapour as they dry.

“Typical,” Dean says, “there goes me dying in a blaze of glory, instead it’ll just be by starvation.”

”Dean, you’re not going to starve to death.” Sam says, rolling his eyes and putting on his best ‘I’m exasperated by my big brother’ voice. He lies down on the floor, bunching up a hoodie to act as a pillow.

“Why? Are you offering yourself?”

Sam throws whatever is nearest at him, which just turns out to be a dirty shirt and Dean catches it easily, but they’re both smiling.

”Seriously though, I’m hungry. This counts as an emergency, I’m getting the rations from the car.”

When Dean comes back with the kendal mint cake and beef jerky he’s dripping water all over the floor and presents bottles of whiskey like they’re hundred dollar bills. “Check these out!”

Dean drops the stuff down next to him before reaching into his bag to pull out a towel and dry clothes. He strips unashamedly, baring smooth skin and muscle, Sam tries to not make it look like he’s staring as beads of water wash over his arms.

He starts to open the bag of beef, licking the salt from his fingers. 

“Go get glasses, bitch.”

“Jerk, _you_ go.” Sam argues, scratching his leg idly, he’s comfortable lying on the floor looking at the cracks on the ceiling.

“I just went to the car.”

“Exactly, you’re used to moving. You should go now while you still remember how.” He turns to face Dean with a look of mock surrender. “It’s too late for me.”

Dean hits him and Sam only laughs in response because Dean’s got that affectionate look on his face that Sam knows to mean he’ll give in.

He pulls out the last resort, the puppy-eyes he’s so used to using on nervous civilians. 

“Please?” 

After a quick sweep of the kitchen Dean comes back with glasses that have fingertip smears near the edges.

“Sanitary.” Sam comments as Dean hands one to him, but he pours the whiskey into it anyway.

“The alcohol will kill the germs.” Dean says, downing the shot and presenting his glass for more. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“What? I’m stuck in a room with just you, I _need_ to get drunk.”

Sam neglects to point out that they’ve been stuck in a room just them two for most of their lives.

“It’s me who’s going to need the alcohol.” He retorts and Dean chuckles, smile wide. He feels like he’s fifteen again with a stolen bottle, shooting glances at the door, ears pricked for the sound of their father returning. Now it’s just them, sitting on the dusty wooden floor, flickering lights making shadows dance on the wall and his brother’s laughter ringing in his ears.

Three-quarters of a bottle later, Sam is watching Dean take another shot, licking salt from his hand and tipping the glass back. He traces the line of his throat with his eyes, mesmirised by the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he swallows. Dean makes a face and locks his gaze onto Sam’s, Sam gulps audibly, suddenly short of breath. The world is vaguely blurry around him but the sharp edges of his brother stand out against the background, strong and beautiful and it makes his head spin even more as his heart thuds in his chest. He spreads his fingers wide against the rough thread of his jeans, all that he feels stuttered and confused.

“Y’a’right Sammy?” Dean asks, dropping down to the floor next to him, lying beside him head to toe. Sam isn’t thinking when he turns to his side to face him, isn’t thinking when he shuffles into Dean’s space and rests his forehead on his shoulder. It’s warm where Dean is and he nudges his nose to where the t-shirt doesn’t cover skin. He feels Dean swallow, can feel him tensing beneath his touch as Sam slings an arm over his brother.

“Uh – Sam -”

Sam shifts, trying to look up, running his nose along Dean’s skin in the process and wow, Dean smells nice. Their eyes meet and he realises he’s never looked at Dean like this. They’ve shared a bed countless of times, they’ve been in all kinds of positions trying to fit into the car and he’s never looked at Dean like this. This close from below, where he can see the cupid’s bow of Dean’s lips, the stubble on his chin. He sees the thin scar that runs across his throat and he suddenly remembers the fear of last night. That feeling that he might never be able to speak to his brother again, that he might never be able to sit shotgun in the Impala and watch the world flash by with Led Zeppelin as the soundtrack. All the thoughts of _wrong_ and _incest_ that floated around his head are obliterated in that moment. God be damned, he can go to hell if he has to but this is _his_ Dean, and he doesn’t want to waste time anymore. He reaches up and kisses Dean’s jaw, feels the scrape of stubble on his lips and the taste of sweat. Dean seems frozen but Sam doesn’t care because suddenly he’s obsessed with wondering how Dean kisses, if he’ll do it rough and hard or if it’ll be gentle, if he’ll treat him like a girl. 

When they start kissing it is intense. Fluttery and nervous at first and Dean’s tongue feels rough against his. 

His skin feels too tight and it’s like he’s burning all over, his hands move fast over Dean’s body, feeling hard planes and slipping underneath the layers. Sam rolls his hips forward and Dean is unmistakably hard.

“We shouldn’t be doing this. Sam.” Dean says, taking a shaky breath,

Sam doesn’t answer, simply leans forward, just wants to take another kiss. Dean tries to push Sam away. “Sam, we _shouldn’t_ be doing this.”

“Do you not want it?” They’re breathing each other’s air, still panting, Sam leaning on his elbows, hovering over Dean. He thinks about how much he wants to lick the freckles spattered over the bridge of his nose.

“You’re drunk.” Dean says looking flustered. Sam drops into the curve of Dean’s neck, his body feels heavy and drowsy, alcohol running through his veins. His lips move softly against Dean’s skin. He feels Dean’s fingers in his hair, running to the back of his neck.

“It’s not fair,” Sam mumbles, thinking of everything they’ve done for each other, everything they’ve been through together. No other couple could say the same, no other couple could boast that kind of protection, the kind of feelings he gets from Dean.

“I’m gonna go check the salt lines.” Dean says, extracting himself from under Sam’s arm, Sam watches his feet go out of sight and falls asleep before they come back.

-

When Sam wakes up he’s got a blinding headache and a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He can feel that Dean isn’t in the room and if his head didn’t hurt so goddamn much he’d get up and go look for him.

His mouth is dry and his throat is sore, god, how much did he drink last night? He has vague recollections of the evening, the salt sticking to the back of his hand is also a reminder. He hears the door opening and looks up to see Dean enter the room juggling two cups of coffee and keys. As he looks up at him he suddenly remembers, the warm feel of his skin, the pressure of Dean’s fingers in his hair as they kissed. He blushes bright red and looks at the pillow.

“Mornin’.” Dean says, “I – uh – got you coffee.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Dean leaves the cup on the floor and Sam can hear him heading back outside again.

”Where you going?” Sam asks, looking up again in time to catch Dean looking guilty and his heart sinks.

“Car needs a bit of TLC. We’ll leave in an hour or so.”

Sam is left holding his head in his hands, Dean’s look of guilt swimming in front of his eyes.

-

Being a Winchester is all about secrets, and codes, and being able to leave without a trace. He thinks maybe this is what is happening. This thing that happened between them, it’s just another part of being a Winchester.

So he follows Dean’s lead and doesn’t mention it. Though not talking about it doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it. He keeps replaying the scene over and over in his head and wondering if it actually happened, if it isn’t just an alcohol-induced dream. But he doesn’t think he could imagine _that_ feeling he had. He isn’t sure he could make that up.  
He feels like they’re tip-toeing around each other, everything is kind of _off_. Dean doesn’t pass the salt when Sam hasn’t even realised he wants it yet, he doesn’t walk one step behind like Sam’s used to, feeling Dean’s eyes constantly on his back. Then Sam doesn’t buy the right kind of dougnuts and he bumps into Dean’s side as they’re both going through a doorway. It’s a stupid thing but Sam only realises now how in tune they were, and he wants it back.

Dean is normal Dean, he cracks stupid jokes, he teases Sam and he eats a ridiculous amount of food. But, he’s also not. Everything he does feels guarded and it doesn’t help that every time Sam looks over at him he can only think about climbing into his lap, tilting his head back and kissing him.

“We’ve got a nice, haunted house to get to by tonight. You game?” Dean says, already taking the interstate leading to Iowa.

“Yeah, sure.” Sam slumps further into his seat, ready to watch the scenery flash by.

-

 

With the hunt it’s all forgotten, all the nagging thoughts and worries he nursed on the drive down chased out of his mind by the single instinct of keeping alive. Sam slides the gun over without even needing to look in what direction Dean is. Dean shoots right on target and they’re communicating again with only the slightest gesture. They’re breathless and exhilirated and Sam looks over at him and sees him all hard lines and determination, hero and saviour in every aspect. 

The silvery light of the moon catches in his brother’s hair and brightens up the massive grin on his face. In that moment, adrenaline pumping through his veins following his brother back to the car, he realises that there is nothing he could love more, there is nothing worth more than Dean. 

“Man, that was a good hunt. I love it when they go well.” Dean lets out a sign and observes the night around him as if it’s congratulating him. Sam moves quickly and has Dean backed up against the car, arms on either side of him. He’s so close he could kiss him if he wanted it to be like that, Sam knows he could take from Dean, there’s nothing his brother wouldn’t give him. But that isn’t the way he wants it. 

Dean’s breath ghosts over Sam’s lips and he doesn’t even look scared.

“Whatcha doing Sammy?” he asks, keeping still and looking into Sam’s eyes.

“It wasn’t because I was drunk.” Sam says, enunciating every word clearly, he stays there a moment longer, making sure Dean has got the message and then he backs off, opens the passenger door and slides in.

It’s actually impressive how quickly Dean recovers and he’s in the car and driving in a matter of minutes. They don’t speak and Sam wonders if he’s gone too far, he wants to tap his fingers against his knees or jiggle his leg but he doesn’t want to show he’s nervous. He has to look calm, collected, most importantly, _sure_. 

When they pull into the motel parking lot Sam is out of the car in a flash, picking up duffel bags as he goes.

“I’ll get the room.” 

As he’s paying with Mr. Ezechial Mathieson’s card he sneaks a glance out the window. He can see Dean’s outline leaning against the car, still and staring off into the distance.

The room is over the top, as per usual, large purple spots on every surface and dark wooden furniture supporting a broken table lamp and a tv that crackles when you switch it on.

Dean still hasn’t come in even after Sam has rearranged the room to their liking (beds away from the door against the wall, salt lines at the thresholds) and changed into nightwear. He lies on the bed, switching off the lights and watching the light dance on the walls as cars go by.

When Dean does come in Sam holds his breath, hyper aware of his every movement, his every breath. Dean seems to hesitate at the doorway, he toes off his shoes and looks at Sam lying on the bed. Sam wants to move, he thinks he should say something, like he’s sorry or _anything_ but he can’t, because this has to be Dean’s choice. It has to be him who makes this decision now.

Sam finally breathes out when Dean slides into bed with and Sam just stays still, looking at the ceiling, as if that would make everything okay, as if what’s about to happen isn’t breaking a few laws in every state. Suddenly he’s not seeing the ceiling anymore and it’s Dean’s eyes and Dean’s mouth and Dean’s nose with the freckles that cover the whole of his face. He quirks his eyebrow slightly and then places a hand on his chest and Sam just chokes – _Dean_ – and drags him down and kisses him, unable to think of anything else.

“You’re sure about this, right Sam? You’re sure?” Dean says inbetween kisses, inbetween running a hand along his arm as if not really believing that he’s doing it.

“Yes, oh god, yes.”

Sam wants to be able to say more, he wants to murmer things in Dean’s ear, tell him everything about the last few weeks. Tell him he’s been so stupid not realising it before and not doing anything. But that would break the Winchester code, even this, this thing between them is Winchester. It’s dark, it shuts people out, it’s Sam and Dean against the world.

Sam doesn’t want it any other way. He buries his fingers in Dean’s shirt and lets himself fall.


End file.
